


sun-water in the earthen jar

by nymphacae



Category: Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: Accidental Bonding, Aromantic Character, Background Poly, Friendship, Gen, Post-Book 4: Muminpappans memoarer | Moominpappa's Memoirs, they/he used for joxter interchangeably, this is foR ME, when the adhd non-cis members of the group chat get together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 13:35:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28671618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nymphacae/pseuds/nymphacae
Summary: Above him the dunnocks chirped madly and the grass whipped his sides red, but Muddler was quite happy; there's being alone around people and then there's being alone by choice. He hadn't much time recently to experience the latter.He's foolish to believe that the island has suddenly become empty, because right as he's beginning to trail off into reverie, he hears across the field clear as a bell, "Yoohoo!!"The Muddler hadn't realized how much he was leaning into a slope until he screams and loses balance.Begrudgingly, The Muddler is thrown into a meet-cute.
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s), The Mymble & The Muddler
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	sun-water in the earthen jar

**Author's Note:**

> rubs my filthy hands all over my faves....i love muddler please care muddler
> 
> features non-violent intrusive thoughts and brief discussion of Adult Things, just to be on the safe side

_‘I haven’t met another mymble like her,' The Joxter explained to him once, when he was curious about her. 'She’s remarkable, you ought to meet her — y'know she’s a bit scatterbrained but that’s alright, she cares when it counts.’_

_'Well, so do I,' The Muddler argued in turn._

_'That is very true,' The Joxter said, tiredly leaning against him while the Muddler rubbed their sore paws with a thumb. 'She's going to leave soon.'_

_'And so are you,' The Muddler said._

_'Also true,' said The Joxter, yawning. 'I'll enjoy her while she still has me.'_

_The rain rapped against the closed coffee tin, and they were quiet for a while._

_'She'd like you very much,' The Joxter said. 'She likes anything, but she'd especially enjoy you.'_

_'I'm not sure,' The Muddler frowned down at their cracked paw pads, chiseled with an age that shouldn't be there. 'I can't imagine she'd ever find me enjoyable.'_

_'Not if you don’t try,’ The Joxter had advised. And then their level of caring had been flipped as dramatically as a lightswitch, and they fell asleep._

_The Muddler never mentioned this encounter again, and shelved away The Mymble like one of his many pawns: that empty reminder that he’d return to inspect it, but never would._

* * *

He'd been fortunate to find a section of the island that'd remained untouched by the civilians — often they were so ecstatic about building walls to nowhere that it became suffocating; finding a place that was still wild was a blessing. The Muddler enjoyed those apertures of unrestrained forestry if he could find it: there was so much to collect, formerly untouched and now found! He has nothing but fond memories of foraging.

But, it's very rare for him to have a duty in mind when he scours fields and woods, much less sticking by it. If it weren't so dire for the sweet and lovely Fuzzy that she _needed_ certain ingredients, Muddler would've been happy losing time to the long grass which devoured the sea-cliffs.

Above him the dunnocks chirped madly and the grass whipped his sides red, but Muddler was quite happy; there's being alone around people and then there's being alone by choice. He hadn't much time recently to experience the latter.

He's foolish to believe that the island has suddenly become empty, because right as he's beginning to trail off into reverie, he hears across the field clear as a bell, "Yoohoo!!"

The Muddler hadn't realized how much he was leaning into a slope until he screams and loses balance.

"My, what a surprise!" The Mymble trots closer with excitement. Peering down she analyzes Muddler's placement in the burrow and looks as confused as he. "Digging for gold down there, sweetie? A shame, I could have brought my spade."

"N-no!" The Muddler skyrockets upwards, reaching desperately for purchase along the crag. "I was — oh gracious me, did I fall onto my basket??"

"Here it is!" The Mymble looks around before dangling it before him like bait. Swiftly does it capture her interest. "Ooh, a ciosan I see! How fancy, I've always had such trouble with sea-bent, did you make this dear?"

"My wife did," The Muddler reaches up impatiently. "Give it here!"

She does so.

"Now help me up, please!"

"Oh! Of course," The Mymble sounds like she hadn't expected him wanting assistance."It sure does look uncomfy down there! _I_ certainly wouldn't enjoy it."

Muddler claps the paw she offers him and, suddenly, he's pulled out of the pit with such abrupt force that he yelps. With one paw Mymble raises him up then sets him down onto his wobbly feet.

"There you are, sweetie! Right as rain," she smiles fully and shamelessly; it goes against the grain for The Muddler, which he feels terrible for, but these sour misgivings are something he has just learned to be accustomed with having.

Suddenly her face scrunches up with an inkling of trouble. "Have we met before?"

The Muddler pats down his coat with dirt clouds cascading off of the patchwork clothes. "I'm The Muddler, excuse me Lady Mymble but we've met many times before."

Lady Mymble blinks. "Have we really? Hmm, perhaps I pictured you taller."

"I'm The Joxter's friend," Muddler continues a touch more primly. "Although, I suppose he's quite private. He may not have ever—”

The fog in her eyes clears but not by much. "Yes, yes! They'd mentioned a friend — there were perhaps three? There was a special one though...ah, well, must've slipped through the ol’ net!"

"Yes," Muddler mumbles, turning back to his work.

"What are you doing, dearie?"

"If you must know, Lady Mymble," The Muddler says. "I'm looking for brambleberries."

"Brambleberries?"

"Oh, erm, these," The Muddler holds up his prizes for her to see.

"Ah— smeara dubha!" The Mymble exclaims. "Why come?"

"Fuzzy is— my wife — she loves to make dyes for her rugs," The Muddler talks with his back turned to her— if he shows disinterest in her without saying so upfront, perhaps that's kinder. "So I'm looking for berries for her."

"How sweet," Mymble gushes, then she detours into thought. "You know, I ought to start making rugs! What fun!"

"She can teach you," The Muddler responds absently, the reeds slapping his arms, “Yes, we've got many cabbages and berries back at home. I can lend you some later, but if you'll excuse me—"

"Oh, I'll be glad to help!"

The Muddler whips around so hard his saucer-pan goes ajar, his ears slapping against his cheek.

"N-no! No, that's quite alright!" he quickly yelps. "You— I only have one basket, you see! And it’d be hard to share—”

"That is true, but I've got my handbag," she pulls it out to showcase. "It's not fit for harvesting, but the little children have gotten their paws on it already." She laughs fondly. "How funny they are! Mixing oatmeal with nettle!"

The Muddler feels the carbonated delight of solitude being popped and dissolving into acid. It's dreadful — Lady Mymble is only ever delightful in Joxter's retellings of her! — but...

"I get so awfully distracted by company..." Muddler mumbles, nearing a whine.

"Nonsense! I'll leave you be, here," Mymble steps back a bit, as though in example. "Now this is my little bubble of alone-ness and that is yours! We can be alone and in the same place."

The Muddler frowns at the invisible barrier. "I don't know..."

"Pah, don't be so posh," The Mymble says brightly. "You'll hardly know I'm here!"

"Well," if he were perhaps Moomin or Hodgkins his foot could more easily be put down. But he isn't, he is a creature borne of shame and compliance against the loud, loud world.

"...Alright."

"Splendid!" Mymble looks ready to burst with glee. "How splendid. Thank you, poppet, I'll leave you to it!"

"Splendid," The Muddler repeats, a shade more tart than hers. But the hint of prodding her is swiftly ignored, as she twirls around and bends down to immediately scavenge. Her dress plumes then curls around her ankles.

They set to work amongst the sheep's-bit and whitethorn, looking intently for the red berries which drape swollen off their bushels. At first the quiet between them is prickly on Muddler’s behalf and then he forgets about caring so much.

Meanwhile, The Mymble seemed to forget their pact very quickly.

"You let me know if you find an arch of those berries," she calls out, ignoring the start of his spine hearing her speak. "If we crawled under it and made a wish we could invite evil spirits!"

The Muddler looks at her wide-eyed. "Why the heavens would we want to do that?"

She ignores him, favoring instead a small flower that she'd been able to rescue from the clutches of the overgrowth.

"Here, my daughter taught me this one," Mymble gives a toothy big grin. Muddler furrows his brows, confused, when she reaches over and poses the yellow flower right beneath his scruffy chin. She cries. "Aha! You see, if your chin is yellow then it means that you like butter."

Muddler pushes her and the flower away. "That's a fib."

"No, but see!" She illustrates this on her own chin and Muddler sees that, indeed, her chin is dull with the diluted yellow of the buttercup. "Since I hate butter, it isn't yellow, but under your chin it is!"

"No," Muddler says. "Your chin is yellow."

"No it isn't!"

"Yes it is!"

She huffs angrily and puts her paws on her hips. "Well, then it's just a ruddy old flower! My daughter would never fib about such a thing!”

The Muddler wants to say, _‘Well, actually’_ , but like most things it just simmers in the back of his throat. The Mymble’s Daughter and her untreated habit of _lying_ is a foothold into a talk that he doesn’t want to have now.

Lady Mymble goes right back to work; her gaze is set to the field beneath her feet, thick lashes draping over her eyes like a bobbin lace. It's hard to interpret, for once, which sentiment she's portraying. But her cheeks are raised and sun-kissed. She hums a song which are snatches of all the songs she knows.

The Muddler's impression of her becomes upheld by watching her tuneles music, dress swaying against the wind. She looks so very kind, here.

Muddler can understand a _smidgen_ better The Joxter's fascination with her, but still he has to frown when she finds items she doesn't like and casts it back into the field. A waste.

Somehow he looks down and finds his basket overflooded — the berries are moist with the sea's air and so vibrantly porous with detail like the bumps along reddened skin.

The Fuzzy will be so pleased!

Right then Muddler decides it's best to leave while Lady Mymble is distracted — worming his way out of a conversation overrules the fear of being rude — and right then she turns.

"I'm rather bored of this," Mymble claps her paws together to clean them, resolute.

Muddler perks up. "How long have we been picking for?"

"Oh, heavens, I've lost track of the time," Mymble answers, not sorry in the least bit. "You wouldn't be opposed to coming and grabbing a bite to eat with me? Say no, please."

_YES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!_

The Muddler says no.

* * *

With the heat of early autumn packing against both their skins, Mymble discarded what layers she had very quickly upon entering the tavern, and the purple dress she wears beneath it is quite revealing. The Muddler politely escorts her without a comment, but does unfortunately catch the side-eyes of many men as they take their seats near the bar.

This place is on the far side of the island, where Muddler doesn't visit; when he isn't clam-fishing with The Joxter or visiting Hodgkins to bring him lunch he's usually at home with Fuzzy preparing for the baby. He has no need to venture that far anymore — it's _not_ because Daddy Jones is on that side of the island, him and his queer little parties.

The Muddler follows her sheepishly, looking around to see very unfamiliar faces. Most are occupied with their own brazen conversations, gin-soaked.

"Aren't you polite, sweet?" Mymble laughs when he shuffles her stool out: hardly necessarily, with her being nearly three feet taller than her, but the gesture is still there. The Muddler transfers to his own seat across her, setting the filled basket right at the stool-leg with a secure pat.

The Mymble sits herself down, then in a surprising move scoops Muddler up from his torso, making him squeak.

Muddler flails about in blind horror until his eyes stop rattling like marbles, and he sees now that she has perched him atop her shoulder like one of her many critter scarves.

"Oh, goodness," The Muddler looks around — he's very high up! — to see that no interest has been rallied to his predicament. And with Mymble being a regular here, perhaps it can be gathered that she does this often with her children or dates.

Gripping her meaty shoulder, claws sheathed, Muddler asks, "Um, excuse me Lady Mymble, but what are we doing here?"

The Mymble hoots like he's told a joke. "Such a card, you wee snip! Didn't I tell you that we were coming to the tavern?"

"No??"

"Oh," she says, brushing this away. "Silly me, then! I'd lose my head if it weren't screwed on."

The Muddler thinks a very awful retort being, _Or if your daughter didn't keep it taped on for you._ But not only is that a roundabout insult with too many words to stammer over — he's also being incredibly mean.

She extends an arm ready to call someone over before she stops. "Dear me, I almost forgot to ask what sort you like to drink, little pea."

"Um...excuse me, that's quite sweet," Muddler is apologetic. "But I'm rather scared to drink."

She gasps. "Heavens! Are you ill?"

"Oh, no, no!" he amends hastily. "Fuzzy and I just can't stand the taste! It makes our poor heads spin and gives awful aches."

Lady Mymble clicks her tongue, then gathers Muddler's glass to join hers. "A pity, but no matter! I'll fetch you some soda instead."

Muddler shakes his head. "I'm afraid I can't do soda either."

"Never mind, never mind!" she chirps. "We have such lovely fruit juice, would you mind that?"

The Muddler thinks, balancing his options, then decides, "That should be fine!"

Lady Mymble immediately tags a waiter down and proudly announces her own order of five stout bottles; before Muddler can ogle her for that she raises him up a tad higher as though the waitress can't see him. "And some juice soda for my darling friend here, please and thank you!"

(Muddler doesn't hear her address him as The Muddler once, and he guesses she'd thrown it out right after their introduction.)

When the waiter leaves, The Muddler cranes his neck down to peer at her. “May I sit in my own seat, please?”

"Certainly, certainly," Lady Mymble cheerfully reaches up to grab the scruff of his coat; feeling stupidly like a scolded mumrikkit he is plummeted onto his stool where pain strikes up his bottom.

Perhaps it's because she's a regular but her order arrives quicker than a wink. She doesn't begin gulping the first glass down until Muddler is brought his own bottle; contrasting his small sips she's already two drinks in before Muddler decides that the taste isn't unpleasant.

"So tell me, sweetie," The Mymble begins: an obvious shift in gears. She puts her empty glass on the table and covers a burp with her fingers. "You said you were friends with The Joxter, didn't you?"

"I did!" Muddler is more surprised she remembered. He cusps his paws around his cold bottle, tucking it into the indent of his lap. "I am, I think. He makes a bit of time to organize buttons or look for seashells — I think he enjoys counting those sorts of things!"

"Isn't that something," The Mymble muses nicely.

"Moomin thinks he's scary," Muddler goes on. "I don't quite understand what he means."

"Now that just tickles me pink!" she laughs. "That dear bastard couldn't scare a worm off my apple tree — believe you me, they've tried!"

The Muddler does twitch his whiskers in amusement, hearing that. The Joxter, for all his odd spur-of-the-moment tales, doesn't share much about these types of encounters with Lady Mymble. All Muddler knew about her was that she was sweet and remarkable and was good in bed — he shut The Joxter’s stories down quickly when they derailed there. (When you hear of someone’s sexual dominance behind closed doors you can’t ever _really_ look at them again.)

"How silly they are," Mymble continues, but it sounds too casual to be infatuation "Excellent company! I never knew how much fun throwing rotten fruit at neighbor's windows was — I didn't even think to try! And now I know, what a funny joxter."

"Do you love him?" The Muddler blurts out; he feels red-hot afterwards, it isn't an answer that he feels suitable knowing.

But The Mymble just cocks her head a bit and gives a light giggle. "Of course! I like the fella very much, it'll be sad when he will have to leave."

"But, you _love_ him. You must," Muddler looks at her quizzically. "Surely, don't you?"

The Mymble makes a titter. "I love everything!"

Muddler frowns. That wasn't an answer. "Excuse me, but wouldn't you marry him?"

This has her pause.

"Now why would I go through all that trouble?" Mymble asks, baffled. "Seems a bit silly."

"It's not silly!" Muddler protests. "If you love someone very much, you ought to keep them close if you can help it! What if you were to lose them?" He shudders, tail looping to a nervous circle. "I wouldn't be able to stand with that regret, goodness me."

Mymble laughs. "You're a card, dear. But I'm not sure I understand what you mean."

"It's..." Helplessly Muddler stares down onto his lap at his glass. "...I suppose not everyone feels the same way."

"I'm very sorry, sweetie," Lady Mymble smiles absently, her apology noncommittal.

(The Muddler put it together that day very easily: that The Mymble loves so much, her chest rich with it, but she isn't _in_ love with anything. He doesn't believe she can, nor wants to.

Suppose she really is free.)

He watches her gulp down the stout without a break for air; somehow still is she able to order some ale too, and keeps drinking. Under the amber lights of the tavern her skin looks saffron and toasted, with the slopes of her shoulders peeling from the afternoon spent beneath the sun. 

Even with the humming ambience of the encircling guests, pounding like cymbals right on The Muddler’s ears, Lady Mymble is able to drown them out even when she does nothing spectacular

"Aren't you mousy?" Mymble remarks at some point. Muddler hadn't noticed that the bottles between them had been phantomly piling up. Slowly but surely the night drags on and The Muddler feels less and less like he's dancing along a knife-point, talking to her. “Good gracious, you’re as invisible as a winter shrew!”

"O-oh, excuse me. I'm sorry."

Lady Mymble just waves a paw, in a careless manner. "I don't give a fig about that, sweetie. As long as you're happy being small.”

"I'm happy!" The Muddler rebukes on instinct.

(It takes him a moment longer for his head to catch up with his mouth; he realizes with a start that right now he _is_ quite happy.)

Abruptly does a grey mouse in a striped tux and apron materialize before their table, and The Muddler suppresses an alarmed shrill. He exchanges an eye between them both, looking displeased.

"I do hope that you've remembered to bring your money tonight, Mymble" he says to her pointedly. "If not you then perhaps your date."

"I...no, that's not true! You've got it wrong!" The Muddler's words tangle up and he can only grow beet-red which probably is _worse_.

"It's true, he isn't," Lady Mymble agrees, looking to The Muddler. "Please don't be cross, dear, but I've ever been lucky with muddlers."

The Muddler isn't _cross_ so much as getting redder..

"I could frankly give less than a toffee, my lady," The Bartender says. "We're fresh out of stout because of you."

"Me?" Lady Mymble looks over at her miniature skyscrapers of cups upon cups upon cups. "Well! Suppose I have been enjoying my recipes too much. But you ought to invest in more storage!”

"Yes," The Bartender drawls, then flits his stone-cold gaze to The Muddler. "Will you be covering the lady's tab, then?"

"Oh—" He doesn't want to. "I-I suppose..."

"Poppycock!" Lady Mymble spits. "I'll have a looksee through my purse, don’t fret.” She pauses to paw through all the crevices of her handbag, flinging a few rowans out of the way. The Muddler hears her mutter, "Pesky fruits! Pah! When the dickens did I collect so many?"

The Bartender remains at the table watching them both throw their items onto the tabletop. Out of The Muddler's pockets go paperclips, pencils, screws, cogs, sprockets, tools, paper scraps, fabric patches, stale crackers, spoons, springs, and lots of thingamabobs and what’s-its. But not a single penny is unearthed.

"I'm...I'm so sorry," Muddler feels heartbroken when he scrapes his pockets dry, looking water-eyed and downcast at his array of knickknacks. "I'm _terribly_ sorry, but I must have left all my coins at home..."

The Bartender flits his eyes across the carpet of gadgets, then raises his brows and gives a very exasperated face up at The Muddler.

"Oh, I've been needing a screwdriver," Mymble, meanwhile, stuffs one of Muddler's prizes into her coin purse, clasping it shut with a satisfied hum.

"Well," The Bartender straightens his spine. "If you have no money, then I'm afraid I'll have to call the police."

The Muddler gasps in horror. "No, please! You can't do that!"

"I'm The Bartender and I have to."

"What's this about?" Lady Mymble finally reunites with the conversation, flitting between Muddler's teary eyes and The Bartender's cold ones. A line in her cheek hardens, her pencil-thin brows knitting together just a touch. "Is something the matter, Erling?"

"I—" The Bartender flushes, then coughs. "I'm arresting you, my dear."

Lady Mymble chews on this a moment. "I see..."

"You must understand, nothing I'm doing is a personal vendetta against you or your date."

"We're not a date!" The Muddler snaps again, blatantly ignored.

The Mymble, meanwhile, appears to still be thinking.

At last she maneuvers her way off of the stool and smooths the creases of her gown. With what Muddler interprets as a much-too taut smile she says, "Erling, I do hope there's no hard feelings about this."

The Bartender's impassive expression flickers a bit. "What do you—”

The Muddler can't even concoct a question before Lady Mymble grabs one of her many glasses and _slams_ it upside The Bartender's head. The crinkling of glass followed by an outraged shout mutes the tavern so suddenly that time seems to freeze.

The Mymble grabs for The Muddler again. He's hoisted on her shoulder _again_ , slung over like a piece of game. His head and stomach lurch before his vision tells the rest of him that they're now in motion.

"My berries!!" is all he can wail, then it's shoved haphazardly into his arms and now she's running.

The Muddler feels his heart hammering up his throat — from his position he gets a full view of all the angered employees in pursuit of them. Loathe as he is to admit it, there isn't a chance they can escape without a full-fledged quarrel. The Mymble has _some_ how become his only saving grace.

She continues her jog like this is all somehow _fine_ , and Muddler hears rather than feels the quick burst through kitchen doors, missing his head by a hair when they swing back into place.

"Through the kitchen to the left!" The Mymble tells him — she sounds _much_ too calm for the circumstances. "I know of a cellar we can escape from."

"And how— do you— know that??" The Muddler asks her fretfully, speaking between awkward halts and sprints whilst she jockeys her way about the kitchen, narrowly avoiding cooks.

"Well, I'd been with a fellow in there—”

" _Never mind!!_ Just do whatever you need!"

The Mymble seems struck as though she'd _just_ realized the gravity of everything. Adjusting The Muddler on her shoulder, her gaze goes stern with a concentration The Muddler hadn't seen her wear. The type that mymblemammas wear protecting young.

"It'll take me a tick to open the window, I believe," she surmises. "Let's see, perhaps I can grab a chair— or a hostage?"

The Muddler won’t let her finish that scheme; despite everything the people chasing him are _angry,_ and he simply wants to go home.

He sends an apology to Fuzzy in his head, promising to harvest tenfold berries for her next time.

Then he swings the basket of his precious berries which scatter across the kitchen tile like a swarm of little creeps: he watches through the prison-bars of his fingers that their pursuers wobble comically as the berries appear to quadruple in mass, equalling a _lot_ of disastrous trips. The domino effect of one creep toppling over the other and that over someone else, etc, might be a funny story for later. But now is _not_ the time.

The floor smears with wine-dark red and there’s no chance of recovering any bit of it for Fuzzy’s dyes...

"Sorry!!" The Muddler cries; he's drowned out by Lady Mymble's hysterical cackling.

It might be the sudden adrenaline which causes her to, as well, crash down shelves of wine stored away in the cellar, when they do eventually find it. If not for the purple of her dress the stains soaking her clothes would be more atrocious.

With the door shut and blocked she lets Muddler down; while he battles fiercely with vertigo she props open the window, prompting him to follow her lead.

If not for _everything_ else occurring The Muddler would have probably just shut himself into his coffee tin like the year of the Oshun Oxtra: to sit and wait for the terrible things to pass while someone that was smarter ( _better_ ) than him took charge.

But that was then and this is now. So he's the first out the window, and when he grabs Mymble's paw and _pulls_ till she's out with him, and they're both running — it feels like he's just done something both barbaric and fantastic.

Lady Mymble howls as she runs, till the screams bruise her lungs.

* * *

Versus the tavern, it is admittedly nice to be out on the sea for once. The Muddler despised his months on the Oshun Oxtra, imprisoned by what felt like a rocking cage. Being on just a small dinghy, built for two at maximum, is an improvement. He doesn't feel _as_ sick as back then, but he wishes he hadn't consumed so much juice. It gurgles in him disapprovingly.

"Do you..." The Muddler stammers to his companion right across from him, knees brushing. He coughs. "Do you think they'll be cross?"

"I imagine that they'll get rather bored and lose interest," Mymble says. "We can stay on the water until after the party, dearie."

"Oh," Muddler shuffles his feet. She could assure him a million times in a million ways but there'd be no difference of his pounding ribcage before or after.

Exhaling shakily he murmurs, "I wish you hadn't stolen the boat."

The Mymble comments something along the lines of "yes, well," but keeps staring ahead.

Fuzzy is probably fussing like mad by now; when he returns he can't even deter her anger with the berries he'd promised. He feels a pure _awful_ that makes him wither up like a dying blossom; he's acutely aware that his seat is cold and the water beneath him is so very dark.

The Muddler's spiral is intercepted by a long, fizzling scream. Over the outline of the town harbor there is a string of neon, which blooms in the blue-dark with a powerful clap. Out burst these rays of oranges, sizzling into smaller lights, like exploding comets.

"Oh, look! The fireworks!" Mymble claps and hollers like one of her many kids. "What fun! Daddy Jones sure knows how to throw a wonderful party!"

" _Please_ don't call him that," The Muddler pleads, but he sinks lower into his seat. The wails of the fireworks are needles pressing against his pincushion of a head. The want to pick at his fur like he’s little again is almost scalding.

Cradling the sides of his temple, he waits for this to be over. He just hopes he won't heave overboard; that would be so humiliating in front of a could-be companion. 

And then, he realizes that he doesn't hear her cheering anymore. Right then, too, Muddler feels something heavy be bundled around his ears, deafening the great booming of the celebrations to a tolerable pulse. As if he were in a great big cocoon.

"Thank you very much," he says, burrowing as far into the petticoat as he's able to. For good measure his tail wraps over his feet, not once but twice, tying him to his seat.

Mymble pats him in assurance, understanding without asking, and returns to her gazing.

The Muddler looks out and sees the display continue, seeing what looks to be a poorly rendered capture of The Autocrat's face embroidered into the light-show. The town below them explodes with cheer.

...It is quite beguiling to watch her; even in silence and with a neutral face, somehow she emanates a quality that The Joxter's inscrutability can't compare with. There are thick strands of her hair dispelled from her loosened bun.

"Lady Mymble?"

She turns.

"Thank you. I...I do believe I had fun."

Lady Mymble's eyes are softer than featherdown. There's a sharpness to them, now, that he hadn't caught before. When she looks away again she appears to have floated halfway off the boat, into the stars. 

If the proverb holds true about eyes being gateways to the soul then The Muddler could equate Mymble's eyes to bits of stained glass, but which are open and let light bleed into everything, illuminating every color tenfold.

"Muddler," she murmurs to herself. "That's right. That was it."

This is the first time The Muddler has ever seen The Mymble.

* * *

When he finds her again, the tides are closing in.

He feels guilty for sneaking up on her; initiating whatever this talk may become feels too much like treading into deepwater. To see her somber and so very still with her back turned feels sacrilegious.

The stormclouds are furiously swirling overhead; a brief respite of the ever-present rainfall. Hodgkins says the world is going to erase itself like a thick wash over a canvas. Beginning anew like in the human ages.

Peevishly, as though he's one of her own little mymbles, The Muddler tugs against her velvet petticoat and says, "Lady Mymble?"

She doesn't jump, thankfully; when she looks down there's a half-smile stitched onto a very tired gaze, giving her an impression that doesn't quite match her. There's light in her eyes, opaque against the few shards of sunlight, but it's old.

"Hello, dearie," she says. "Leaving as well?"

"No! No, not yet," Muddler shakes his head in a fit. "We have so much to move! Hodgkins says this will be such a big storm — Fuzzy will be so upset if her precious collections were ruined!"

Mymble doesn't hold onto much but a fraction of sentences, anyway — her head is much too aimless to accumulate any more drabble. But she smiles as he talks, unwavering.

"My, my," is all she says, which could really mean anything.

Then she gazes back out onto the choppy waves. The great white maw of the ocean's teeth snarl with frothy bubbles emitting, and Muddler thinks of all the sea creatures that lurk beneath with similar jaws.

It's been months since Moomin's house stopped feeling like a home, and that feeling has gotten more bitter since Moomin eloped with the moominmaiden recovered from the sea. He'd left only a note explaining that he'd never return, and he had taken a bit of Muddler's oatmeal before departing. On the table Moomin left a plate of all the trinkets he spat out of the mash.

The Joxter is going to leave, too. Muddler hasn't heard them say when, but he can feel it like a tug against cloth. It's a wonder they've stayed this long anyhow.

(The Muddler is okay with letting them leave — when everything is flipping onto its head, when Moomin is gone, when Hodgkins is holed up in his workshop, when Fuddler is getting old enough to talk and ask questions — and the reason for that is simple.

The Muddler has seen many people scared, and The Joxter is one of those people.

He wouldn't risk seeing that ever again.)

"Will you go with The Joxter?" Muddler asks. "They're still here, you know. There's still time if you want."

Mymble sighs, "You're very kind, dearie. But I'm afraid that whatever you think of us, we aren't...well, that."

His throat feels bitter, swallowing feels like rubbing stones together. "Okay..."

"I love him very much," Mymble says. "Just like I love my daughters, and this island. Like wine and parties and you."

Her paw cradles the curvature of her stomach, which appears more bloated than normal. She keeps her eye on the halocline of sky and sea, thinking something private.

"But nothing is supposed to be forever, sweetie," she murmurs — for the first time The Muddler recognizes her tone as sober and maybe even sad. "You should only love what you can reach while it's here. If you keep grasping paws blindly it does no one any good."

He hasn't heard her speak like this before.

From here, he sees Moomin's house built into the rocks be smothered by a quilt of angry waves. It falters and collapses into the sea, leaving only the skeletal foundation.

"What do you think will happen next?" Muddler asks her.

The Mymble doesn't answer right away, ginger hair billowing around her face to obscure her thought. Looking at her proper, the absence in her eyes looks like a marrow-deep grief. But she's smiling.

"Everything that needs to be broken will be broken," The Mymble says "And if it is loved enough to be fixed, then it will be."

Muddler blinks at her, feeling something become both unlocked and patched up all at once.

Her expression is serene, and whatever sunlight is left halos around the outline of her round face. She's very beautiful, and she deserves to be.

Then she cries out and points. "Bedad! Would you look over there?" The Muddler follows her index to where hazy silhouettes of ships line the horizon, appearing to leave the docks.

"Well," she sighs again, "I'll have to tally up to the little ones now! It's getting much too stormy to live on a shallow island. Wouldn't you agree?"

"You could come with us," Muddler says without thinking.

Mymble looks at him a bit funny, then before he profusely excuses his bluntness, she gives a deep, genuine belly laugh.

That appears to be her answer, for she gives only a dying chuckle and holds her stomach, then goes quiet.

As he tries to depart, Lady Mymble calls, "Wait a tick, there!"

Muddler goes back to her easily.

There's a spot of blue he hadn't seen in her fingers before. Without instruction he leans forward to let her drop the sprig of bluebell into the hole of his hat's pan-handle. He retracts, thanking her, and watches the lines of her face crinkle.

"I'll see you, surely," Muddler tells her.

"Yes," Lady Mymble says. And that is that.

He leaves her on the cliff as the wind comes rolling in, and there she stands until Muddler can no longer look back and see her.


End file.
